


Fabric Shoes

by Goldentrio15



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), The Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Crossover, opium den
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8475685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldentrio15/pseuds/Goldentrio15
Summary: Will Herondale crosses paths with Ten and Sherlock.





	

William Herondale was dreaming.

It was a good dream, which in itself was strange. Will didn’t have dreams, he had nightmares. But this one was happy. Jem was there, and Tessa, and Charlotte and everyone else, even bloody Jessamine. Mortmain didn’t exist. Oh, and he was holding hands with Tessa. That was nice. Dream Will wasn’t cursed, Dream Jem wasn’t dying and Dream Tessa was happy and laughing. Will smiled in his sleep and rolled over onto his stomach, clutching his pillow to his chest. 

Suddenly, his dream dissolved into smoke as someone stumbled against his bunk, shaking it hard enough to wake him. Angrily, Will swung his legs out of bed and got to his feet to go and hit whoever it was for ruining his dream. Or at least he tried to. The walls spun and the ground seemed to be tilting up, up, up, until it came vertical and smacked him in the face. 

The floor felt comfortable and warm, and the room hadn’t stopped shifting yet, so Will decided he would just have a little nap here. Maybe he could find his dream again. But other people had other ideas. A pair of shoes entered his vision, oddly enough made out of fabric. Who would make shoes out of fabric? The feet contained in the strange shoes were attached to a pair of legs covered by navy blue trousers, but his gaze didn’t make it higher than the person’s knees because if he moved too much the room started spinning again. Will dropped his head back to the floor and closed his eyes.

Instead of leaving him to sleep, the stranger leaned down and grabbed him under the arms, lifting him upright until Will stood, swaying on his feet. The stranger was surprisingly strong, especially seeing how skinny he was, long and lean like Jem. He was wearing a beat-up, navy blue suit under a long tan coat, and his brown hair was sticking up in about fifty different directions. Black-rimmed glasses sat on his nose, and he had the look about him of one studying an insect that was doing something supremely odd.

“Well, don’t let me keep you. Just passing through. Looking for a friend, actually, have you seen him? Tall, with curly black hair, would have been dressed a bit like me? He likes to come here too - nasty habit. I’m trying to get him to stop, but he says it helps his mind, and quite frankly, I need a mind like his. Haven’t met a human as intelligent as him since Stephen Hawking. Oh wait, he isn’t around yet. Never mind that. Say, do you want to help me look?” All of this was said in a rapid-fire tone that sounded like the stranger was conversing about the  _ London Daily _ . Will shook his head and waited for the words bouncing around inside his brain to float together and form sentences. 

“Oh, for God’s sake Doctor, just leave him. He’s just an addict. Everyone here is, including me, but let’s not worry about that, shall we, because I’ve been undercover for the last three days and I’ve found the killer. We have to go  _ now _ or he’ll get away and do you mind if I use your phone to text Lestrade?” A man who looked exactly like the stranger had described stepped up behind him and put a hand out. Will wondered what a phone was as he waited for these words to form coherent sentences too. He wished everyone would stop talking so fast. The new stranger was talking at top speed too, only his tone wasn’t conversational; it was condescending. Suddenly, everything became too much for Will - the speed of conversation, the odd language, the strange clothes - and his eyes rolled up in his head before he collapsed backwards onto the bed. 

Sherlock said, “Oh, good. He’s passed out. Now we don’t need to worry about him. Can we please  _ go  _ now or Moriarty is going to get clean away and I’m going to have to spend another six months tracking him down!” Then he spun on his heel and strode off, as usual not waiting to see if his companion was following. The Doctor nodded and turned away, before turning back and lifting the blankets over the black-haired boy who locked his secrets tight to his chest and threw away the key. He knew that this boy would be instrumental later in the final battle against Mortmain and hoped that the clockwork angel would do as it had promised to do and keep him safe. He couldn’t,  _ wouldn’t _ , lose him too.

Then he turned and strode after Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this months ago at my brother's request. I apologise for any historical inaccuracies, but to be honest I wasn't trying too hard to make it perfect, this was just a way to occupy time one Saturday afternoon.


End file.
